


Constantly Consuming

by verhalen



Series: Seeds of Fire [6]
Category: Flameborn (Multiverse), Flameborn Omegaverse, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alpha Fingolfin, Alpha Nerdanel, Alternate Universe, F/M, Finarfin/Cake OTP, Finwe's A+ Parenting, Finwë Is A Dick, Girl Penis, Idiots in Love, Incest, M/M, Male Lactation, Masturbation, Multi, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Fëanor, Omega Verse, One Shot, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25067740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/pseuds/verhalen
Summary: Almost two years after Fëanor gives birth to Maedhros, Fingolfin goes to visit him at Formenos.  But the ache to be close to him isn't just one brother missing another, it's an Alpha's desire for an Omega...
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Finarfin | Arafinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel
Series: Seeds of Fire [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1418458
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	Constantly Consuming

**Author's Note:**

> In this verse the invented word "oma" is used for an Omega parent, the one who gives birth irrespective of gender.
> 
> Finwë insists on being called Adar/Father per the proscription of the Valar rather than the Old Custom (where he would be "ana", the Alpha parent).

_So grow  
Libido throw  
Dominoes of indiscretions down  
Falling all around  
In cycles  
In circles  
Constantly consuming  
Conquer and devour_

_Cause it's time to bring the fire down  
Bridle all this indiscretion  
Long enough to edify  
And permanently fill this hollow_

-"The Hollow", A Perfect Circle

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
  
  
It had been close to two years since Fingolfin had last seen his brother Fëanor - there had been an invite to come visit once things had calmed down after the birth of Maedhros, but of course Fingolfin had heard from his mother that the childbirth had been more difficult than anticipated, and Fingolfin had gotten the gist from Fëanor's letters that his first child was taking some getting adjusted to. So Fingolfin waited until he was given word that Fëanor and Nerdanel were ready to receive him, and he kept himself busy with the preparations for his own wedding...  
  
...the wedding he desperately did not want to have.  
  
He and Anairë liked each other well enough as people, but he had figured out soon enough that Anairë was as enthusiastic about the match as he was, which was to say, not at all, and for somewhat similar reasons. Anairë had a best friend since childhood, the Lady Eärwen of the Teleri, who she'd met through her father Ingwë's political machinations. It didn't take long to be in the presence of the two young women for Fingolfin to figure out they were a little more than just friends, and that was without the gossip as to why Eärwen herself was still unmatched. Publicly, Ëarwen claimed it was her devotion to the Valar, but Fingolfin knew it was devotion to someone else entirely.  
  
It was something Fingolfin himself understood, except that the love he held was even more forbidden by the Valar. He was in love with Fëanor.  
  
He and Fëanor had been very close, even though Fingolfin was a bit younger. As a small child Fingolfin had followed Fëanor around, with Fëanor making jokes about his little shadow. And yet, Fëanor never talked down to him the way the other adults did. When Fingolfin got old enough, Fëanor taught him skills and sport and games, and Fingolfin idolized him for it. His fondness for his brother was all the stronger with the unjust way their father treated him - Fingolfin saw the tears Fëanor tried to mask and not let anyone see, and offered hugs, brought secret snacks, built blanket forts for them to hide in. When it became apparent that Fëanor liked Nerdanel and was spending more time with her, Fingolfin tried to be happy, but mostly he was jealous, and that was when he realized he had fallen in love with his own brother.  
  
And that realization had become even stronger at their wedding, when he'd put his hand on Fëanor's pregnant belly and felt the as-yet-unborn Maedhros kick. Once again, he'd wanted to be happy for Fëanor and Nerdanel. But all he could think of was _I wish that was my baby inside him._ It didn't help that Fëanor had smelled utterly delicious, even more delicious than the cake that his mother had made special for the wedding, which Finarfin had gotten all over himself at the ceremony. Even now, close to two years later, Fingolfin could smell Fëanor's scent if he closed his eyes and thought, and it drove him mad with _want._  
  
He had been trying so hard to fight it, key word being "hard" - whenever he stiffened, he prayed for strength, for purity. He could not give in to this sin and bring dishonor on his family, especially because he worried how Finwë would find a way to take it out on Fëanor.  
  
Fingolfin was forty-nine now, almost of age. Very soon. He was expected to be wed to Anairë not long after his fiftieth birthday, and then Finwë and Ingwë were both going to get on their cases to produce an heir; they were going to have to figure something out.  
  
But though it was coming up soon, it also felt far away yet - right now the only thing that mattered was that he'd finally gotten a message that Fëanor and Nerdanel were ready to receive him, and he would ride out in the morning.  
  
He couldn't wait.  
  
  
_  
  
Fëanor and Nerdanel were staying at their new vacation home, which Fëanor called Formenos. It was in the northern regions of Valinor, much more heavily forested than the rest of Valinor. It seemed to Fingolfin as he rode out that as the land got wilder, less touched by people, that the land pulsed with its own heartbeat and sang. The air was crisp and fresh, and despite the length of his journey, Fingolfin felt more refreshed by its end than when he'd set out, such was the restorative properties of the forest. He could see why his brother, the artist, had chosen to make his home-away-from-home up here, surrounded by the wild peace, trees as far as the eye could see, the forest teeming with life. A short distance before arriving at Formenos, Fingolfin stopped to watch a family of elk crossing, tears in his eyes at their majesty.  
  
Then tears came for a different reason - he wished Finarfin could see this, but Finwë had of course forbade his youngest son to come along, claiming that he didn't want Finarfin "corrupted" by Fëanor's "impiety".  
  
Once there, Fingolfin saw that the vacation home was indeed properly named "Northern Fortress". As his place to get away from people, Fëanor necessarily had designed something heavily fortified, to reduce the need for guards among his staff. And Fingolfin knew that, on a deeper level, this was Fëanor's sanctuary. Fëanor was hiding from the world, up here. This was his safe place, as far away from Finwë's hatred and the politics of court that he could get and still be in the same land.  
  
But here and now, Fëanor wasn't hiding. He was waiting with Maedhros outside, wearing the baby in a sling. Fingolfin felt his entire face break out into a grin, mirroring Nelyafinwë's smile and laughter as the baby waved, cooing.  
  
And then their eyes met, Fëanor's silver eyes like a flash of lightning that he had missed so much for the last almost-two years. Fingolfin's breath caught in his throat. Fëanor ran to him, and Fingolfin felt the tears again as Fëanor's arms were tight around him and he too was holding Fëanor as tightly as he could, spinning him around, rocking him, overcome with joy so fierce he felt he could break.  
  
"Brother," Fingolfin cried.  
  
Fëanor pulled back and smiled at Fingolfin, eyes shining with tenderness. "Look at you." Fëanor stroked Fingolfin's cheek. "You're so tall now! Taller than I am." Then Fëanor grabbed Fingolfin, pulled him down to his shoulder, and put his fist on Fingolfin's head, rubbing with his knuckles as he did when Fingolfin was younger and smaller. "I can still do this."  
  
Fingolfin grabbed Fëanor's nose and tweaked it, and Fëanor tweaked Fingolfin's nose right back. Then, as the brothers laughed, Maedhros reached out and grabbed both their noses. Fëanor's laughter rang out, echoing in the trees.  
  
It was _so good_ to hear that laugh.  
  
"Come in," Fëanor said, practically dragging him through the gates. Fingolfin's horse walked beside them and Fëanor led the horse to water, pet the stallion fondly. "Good boy," he said to the horse. Then he looked up at Fingolfin. "How was your trip?"  
  
"It was a nice ride," Fingolfin said. "I can see why you chose to build a place here."  
  
"I knew you would." Fëanor's voice was soft.  
  
Somehow, Fëanor acknowledging that Fingolfin would understand something so important to him, so close to his heart, was better than any compliment on how much he'd grown. And then Fëanor's face fell and Fingolfin felt the pit of his stomach rise, not wanting his brother to be sad. "Where is Ara?"  
  
"Father would not allow him to come. My apologies."  
  
Fëanor swore under his breath, his fists clenching. Then he just nodded, eyes closed, looking like he was in pain. Fingolfin _felt_ it, the heartbreak at not being allowed to watch his youngest brother grow up... the knowledge that Finwë was this angry with him for marrying Nerdanel.  
  
"Let us go inside," Fëanor said, putting an arm around Fingolfin's waist; Fingolfin felt a shiver go through him, his entire body aflame at the simple, innocent touch of Fëanor's hand.  
  
And that scent... sweet Eru, that scent.  
  
  
_  
  
  
Finwë had only given Fingolfin leave for a fortnight, and then he was expected to ride back to his father's palace. A fortnight did not seem nearly long enough for not having seen Fëanor in close to two years, and Fingolfin sensed that it troubled Fëanor just as much as it troubled him, but they put their despair aside and concentrated on making those days count, at each other's sides as much as possible.  
  
The first several days of that time was spent exploring the wilderness surrounding Formenos. They hiked together and Fëanor showed Fingolfin the different plant life; they watched birds and squirrels and elk. They quietly watched a bear drinking from a distance. They went riding on horseback together through the trails in the woods and through the hills, racing each other, and Fingolfin felt as if he could fly, not just from how fast his steed was going, but the sheer exhilaration of being in Fëanor's presence. Fëanor had been so temperamental in the months and years before leaving Finwë's palace, which Fingolfin knew was because of Finwë himself. It was amazing what being away from his father and being in a healthier living environment - being allowed to be himself - had done. It was so wonderful to see Fëanor smile, listen to him laugh, watch him take joy in the simple pleasures of the beauty of the world around them, which felt so much bigger than the land Finwë owned. The sky and the forest felt infinite, and exploring it with Fëanor made Fingolfin feel infinite.  
  
Of course, it wasn't all depth and profundity all the time. Fëanor took him to a river and a lake that was not so far, to go fishing and swimming. Splashing about with Fëanor in the lake was like old times, especially when they ducked each other, grabbed each other's toes underwater.  
  
And yet, it was not like old times. Fingolfin was painfully aware of Fëanor stripped to his underpants, his bare chest, the muscle definition in his arms and back from wielding the hammer in his forge. Fingolfin tried not to look for long, but it seemed Fëanor's beauty was as magnificent as their surroundings. _You were made for this place._  
  
The painful truth. _You were made for me._ But Fingolfin dared not speak it.  
  
On some of their outings they brought Maedhros, even though Nerdanel had concerns with the baby being out there in the forest. Fingolfin assured his sister-in-law that he would look out for the lad as much as his own Oma would, and indeed, it seemed Fëanor was just as ferocious as any bear in the protection of his son, a knife in his hand at the smallest rustle in the brush. Maedhros, though, did not frighten easily - indeed, he was a happy child who seemed even happier out with his Oma and uncle, smiling and pointing and clapping at all the little wonders - flowers, butterflies, small rodents, wildcats.  
  
One of Fingolfin's favorite memories of that time was when he and Fëanor were coming back from a hike, and Fëanor just threw himself down in the grass as the light of the Trees was changing. Fingolfin thought he was being ridiculous, and then Fëanor used his mind to shove Fingolfin down without touching him, falling down right beside him. Fëanor held Maedhros and they all looked up at the sky together, watching the silver and gold mingle, and the way the streaks of light made shapes.  
  
"Look," Fëanor said, pointing. "There's a horse."  
  
"As you know, that's not a horse," Fingolfin said. "That's a cloud."  
  
"It's a goddamn horse, Ñolo." Then Fëanor pointed to a phallic-shaped cloud. "Look. There's you. A dick."  
  
Fingolfin glared, and Fëanor cackled, before attempting a wink and failing - more of a clumsy blink - that somehow, maddeningly, made him even more appealing. Then that grin. Fingolfin heard himself sigh. Their eyes met, and held, and Fingolfin felt that same frisson through him that he'd felt at Fëanor's wedding to Nerdanel, when he'd put his hand on Fëanor's pregnant belly and for just an instant, he thought maybe his love was returned, that Fëanor wouldn't think he was sick and wrong for loving him this way.  
  
But Fingolfin was too afraid to ask, not wanting to be rejected - or worse, dragged to the Valar and judged for his perversion. He knew, of course, that Fëanor did not like the piety of their father, and often said hilariously blasphemous things in private. Just the same, Fingolfin did not want to take any chances.  
  
And then Fëanor's attention turned back to the sky. "What do you see?"  
  
"Er."  
  
"Come on, Ñolo. Play the game..." Fëanor began poking him, so boyish that Fingolfin couldn't help but laugh.  
  
"Very well." Fingolfin examined the sky, the shapes the ever-changing streaks of light formed. "There is a castle, and there is a swan..."  
  
"Yes, good..."  
  
"And there is a heart." It seemed like an omen. Fingolfin swallowed hard, biting back _It's yours._  
  
Fëanor took Fingolfin's hand and squeezed, and Fingolfin's own heart began to race, wondering again _Does he know?_  
  
Fingolfin's mouth went dry, and at that moment Maedhros - usually cheerful and not fussy at all - began to squall.  
  
"Oh no, he's hungry," Fëanor said. "Usually I wait until the light has changed to feed him, but he's had a long day, haven't you?"  
  
Maedhros cried harder.  
  
"All right." Fëanor exhaled sharply. "I have to feed him..."  
  
"I understand."  
  
What Fingolfin wasn't expecting was for Fëanor to just hand the baby over, Fingolfin holding Maedhros as Fëanor took off his tunic, once again bare-chested, looking more delicious than he had a right to. His nipples were hard and swollen... and as soon as Fëanor took his son back, Maedhros latched onto one, sucking away, milk spilling out of the corners of his mouth. Fëanor rocked the baby and pet his mop of red hair.  
  
"That's it," Fëanor soothed. "Drink up, get big and strong."  
  
Fingolfin couldn't stop staring at Fëanor's nipples. Maedhros slurped hard at one and then turned to the other, and Fingolfin watched the milk dripping from the nipple that had just been suckled, the nipple even more swollen than before. Fingolfin wondered what Fëanor's milk tasted like, and the mental image came of suckling Fëanor's nipples himself, lapping them with his tongue as Fëanor panted and writhed underneath him...  
  
 _Eru's name, stop that._ Fingolfin shivered. He felt even more like a deviant now, wanting to suckle his own brother, wanting to give Fëanor's sensitive nubs pleasure...  
  
When Maedhros had his fill, Fëanor sat there for a few moments still shirtless, his nipples continuing to drip milk down his chest. He noticed Fingolfin staring and Fëanor stammered, "I'm... I'm waiting to stop leaking before I put my tunic back on. So it doesn't get wet, and all."  
  
That made sense, but it was _distracting_ \- Fingolfin was no longer watching the dazzling light show in the sky - and Fëanor's scent was stronger now, which was intensifying the distraction. Fingolfin took deep breaths, trying to keep himself under control, not wanting Fëanor to know how aroused he was, not wanting his breeches to tent. He desperately wanted to help drain those nipples, sucking them dry.  
  
When Fëanor's nipples stopped dripping milk, Fingolfin held Maedhros again as Fëanor put his tunic back on, and they went back to the fortress as if nothing had happened. Fingolfin couldn't help notice that the bottom of Fëanor's breeches was wet when he stood up, as if he had been laying in a patch of wet grass, but of course it wasn't time for dew yet. It had been Indis to tell him about the bees and the trees, the mechanics of Alpha, Beta, and Omega - he was an Alpha and Anairë was a Beta, so it seemed useless to learn about Omegas, "but one of your children might be," Indis pointed out. And so Fingolfin had learned about slick, and he wondered, again, if Fëanor had felt the spark between them and his body was reacting.  
  
Wondering... more like hoping. But Fëanor said nothing at all, strangely quiet as they went to and through the gates.  
  
It was another ordinary dinner, Fingolfin delighted yet again by watching Fëanor "do the bird" with a forkful of Maedhros's mash, but Fingolfin could feel Nerdanel staring at him and he kept glancing over at her, nervous, wondering if she sensed anything...  
  
...or, as importantly if not moreso, if she smelled anything.  
  
  
_  
  
  
As Fingolfin lay there that night, alone in the guest chambers, his mind once again replayed the fantasy of just him, suckling Fëanor's nipples as their hard cocks rubbed together... as Fingolfin's hard, aching cock slid in and out of Fëanor's slick passage. Fingolfin tried to not give in to the urge to relieve the pressure building and building, chanting the prayers Indis had taught him, and at last he went to sleep.  
  
But when he slept, the fantasies played out again, even more vividly than before, as if it was real. And when he woke, he saw his nightclothes and the sheets were stained with his seed, erupting in his sleep.  
  
Fingolfin hoped the few servants around would not gossip among themselves as they did the laundry. He did not want a scandal, did not want to be known as a fornicator. He especially did not want word getting back to Finwë so he could hear yet another lecture about purity.  
  
Fingolfin had five days left before he was supposed to go back to his father's palace, and after spending so much time in the forest, now Fëanor needed to go back to the forge; he bade his brother to accompany him there. Fingolfin was not surprised that the smithy at Formenos was as grand as the one at his place closer to home, and yet he was surprised all the same, amazed to be in the presence of a master craftsman.  
  
It turned out that Fëanor had a reason for wanting to spend most of Fingolfin's last days in the forge, with Fingolfin at his side. "I am going to make you a sword," Fëanor said. "But not just any sword. A very special sword. And I need you to be here so I can..." Fëanor made a vague hand gesture, his eyes far away; Fingolfin could feel Fëanor's mind racing, like a whirling wheel. "Feel your energy. Code the sword to your essence, so it is for you and you alone."  
  
Fingolfin thought that was very strange, but he had learned long ago to not ask questions, just nod and let Fëanor "do his thing". And the fact was, as utterly mad as it sounded, Fingolfin would have went along with far stranger things to be around Fëanor in his forge, the privilege of watching him create.  
  
For Fëanor, in his forge, was in his element. Their father had named him "Spirit of Fire" to mock him, call him a demon for Miriel dying in childbirth, but Fëanor had turned that epithet around, a sort of magical alchemy, transmuting a curse into a blessing, the gift of smithcraft. To watch Fëanor at work, creating, was like watching a force of nature. It was indeed, to Fingolfin, like watching one of the Valar themselves - Yavanna walking through the fields and orchards to bless the yield of the crops, Ulmo rising the waves - but even more astounding. That thought was blasphemy, and yet it was truth. It seemed to Fingolfin that Fëanor's talent rivaled Aulë himself, and Fëanor was still young yet. Fingolfin watched Fëanor with nothing less than worship in his eyes as Fëanor worked on the blade and its hilt, getting it all just right, seemingly down to the very molecule.  
  
The blade was finely etched with knotwork and a spell of runes. The grip of the sword was curved, the hilt of the sword was simple and elegant, its most notable touch being a four-pointed star with a wheel in the center, and in the center of the wheel, Fëanor set a blue diamond. "Like your eyes," Fëanor said, his voice hushed, reverent. Once again, that frisson went through Fingolfin, wondering, hoping.  
  
Feverishly, tirelessly, Fëanor worked almost non-stop for the next three days, barely eating, not sleeping, pausing only to tend to Maedhros as needed. As exhausted as Fingolfin was staying up with him, he was also enthralled to watch the entire creative process, and it seemed that his excitement - his awe - was feeding the sword.  
  
When it was at last finished, Fëanor put it in Fingolfin's hand. Fingolfin gave him the salute he always gave before sparring a worthy opponent, and then he moved the sword in the usual positions. But unlike the one that Finwë had given him years ago, this sword seemed to better fit his hand, and felt fluid - almost as if the sword were moving him, rather than him moving the sword, the sword seeming to already know how to strike, how to counter. Fingolfin marveled at it.  
  
"Do you like it, brother?" Fëanor looked so much like an eager puppydog.  
  
Fingolfin put down the sword and threw his arms around Fëanor. "I love it." His arms tightened around his brother. "I love you."  
  
Of course, he meant those words above and beyond the love of a sibling. But for now, it had to be taken as a sibling's love. Fëanor returned the embrace and for a few moments they just held each other, completely lost in that space where it seemed they were all that existed, and everything would be all right so long as they held onto each other.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Fingolfin saw the blue diamond on the hilt of the sword, and it seemed like it had become a blue flame. Fingolfin felt fiercely protective of his brother - he would die for Fëanor, he would kill for him - and it was almost as if the sword knew that, and was acknowledging that bond.  
  
They finally left the forge, now that the sword was done. Fingolfin had some food, but Fëanor just wanted to go to bed.  
  
On his way to his guest chamber, it became apparent that Fëanor had not gone to bed to sleep. There was a wet slapping noise in the hall, and the sound of Fëanor crying out, and Fingolfin's footsteps took him in the opposite direction. He paused near the doorway of Fëanor's bedchamber, watching as Nerdanel had her cock out and was pounding into Fëanor hard and fast, with Fëanor bucking wildly underneath her, panting, whimpering. Nerdanel was suckling Fëanor's nipples, Fëanor's voice getting louder and louder, begging her "more, more..."  
  
The scent of Fëanor was overpowering, and indescribably delicious. Fingolfin went hard, a shudder through him at _those noises_ , wishing he was the one making Fëanor produce them... wishing it was his cock gliding in and out of Fëanor, his mouth on Fëanor's swollen nipples, drinking his milk. Making Fëanor beg for more.  
  
Fingolfin hurried to his guest chamber before anyone could see him spying on his own brother having sex, and as soon as his clothes were off, before he could change into his nightclothes, he found himself reaching for his throbbing cock and stroking it furiously, his mind playing the images he'd just witnessed but it was him on top of Fëanor, their bodies slapping together, his cock producing that filthy sweet slurping sound as it drove in and out of Fëanor's slick passage. He thought of those cries, and he heard himself groaning, grunting, until he couldn't make any sounds at all, could barely breathe, pleasure-tension wound so tight it threatened to break him...  
  
...and then the flood. Fingolfin gave a strangled sob as his seed shot out in arc after arc, cream covering his hand, cream dripping down the wall. Fingolfin's body shook and twitched involuntarily, and Fingolfin lay there feeling like he was made of stone, yet impossibly light at all at once.  
  
He'd crossed a line. He'd crossed several lines. And it felt wonderful. He would do it again.  
  
He was sure that somehow, the real thing would be even more wonderful. But he was also sure the real thing could never, ever happen. That was his brother. That would be sin.  
  
  
_  
  
  
On the next-to-last day of Fingolfin's visit, a courier brought a message from Finwë himself. The message, to everyone's amazement, invited Fëanor to come back with Fingolfin - alone and with Maedhros, not Nerdanel - for a fortnight. Finwë had not seen his grandson in some time, and, as importantly, Arafinwë was throwing a fit because Fingolfin had gone to see Fëanor and Finwë would not let him come; Finarfin was refusing to eat, including refusing cake Indis had made to bribe the boy to eat. Finarfin refusing cake was very serious indeed.  
  
Nerdanel was not happy about the snub, but she also did not care to be in Finwë's presence either. And so it was that Fëanor rode south with Fingolfin, Maedhros in the sling, a bundle of baby care supplies on Fëanor's back.  
  
Despite Finwë's invite, he still was, at best, coolly polite to Fëanor, indicating that he was more tolerated for Finarfin's sake and the sake of seeing Maedhros. As soon as Fëanor strode into the entryway, Finarfin ran past the guards right for Fëanor, who scooped his youngest brother into his arms and spun him around, Finarfin riding on Fëanor's shoulders into the palace.  
  
As much as Fingolfin was happy to spend additional time with Fëanor, it being under their father's roof was downright oppressive, and Fingolfin watched Fëanor sink back into the depression that had been all too familiar in the years before his marriage to Nerdanel and striking out on his own. Playing games with Finarfin - and making sure Finarfin ate, including feeding Finarfin cake while Finarfin sat on his lap - did brighten Fëanor a bit, but always it was cut short, Finwë dragging Finarfin away with a stern, disapproving look on his face as Finarfin cast a mournful look over his shoulder.  
  
It seemed, though, that it wasn't just Finarfin that Finwë didn't want around Fëanor, but Fingolfin also... Fingolfin moreso. Fëanor playing games with his younger brother, letting Finarfin ride on his shoulders as they took walks around the palace grounds, was completely innocent. Fingolfin wondered if their father knew Fingolfin's interest in spending time with Fëanor was less innocent... if Finwë could smell the strong scent Fëanor was giving off when Fingolfin was close by, and if Finwë could smell the scent from Fingolfin in return. Unlike Finarfin, Fingolfin wasn't small anymore - he was taller than Finwë now, too - and could not be dragged away by the hem of his tunic or his ear. But Finwë's glare was much sharper, his tone much icier if he even acknowledged Fëanor in Fingolfin's presence.  
  
And it made Fingolfin worry. For the first time, Fingolfin wished the visit would fly by, if only because Finwë's contempt felt like it was poisoning the very air they breathed.  
  
On the last night of the visit, Fingolfin heard weeping from the guest chambers. He let himself in and saw Fëanor huddled under blankets.  
  
"I'm fine," Fëanor called out.  
  
"You're not fine."  
  
Fingolfin just held him. Every nerve in Fingolfin's body, every cell, every pore, was screaming to do more than just hold Fëanor, wanting to take him the way Nerdanel had done and make him forget everything for awhile, make Fëanor forget his own name. But he could not, not here under his father's roof... not ever. And though just holding Fëanor like this hurt, it would hurt even more to not hold him, not offer him comfort in some way.  
  
As if he _knew_ , there was a rap on the door, and Fingolfin's heart froze, feeling the glacial fury of their father's presence on the other side. Before Fëanor could tell Finwë to come in or give them a moment, the door opened on its own, and Finwë stepped through.  
  
"I was giving my brother a hug," Fingolfin said, "to..." He had to think fast. "Thank him for my gift." Fingolfin reached out his hand and the sword he'd hung up by the door flew into his hand. Fingolfin saluted with the sword and proceeded to demonstrate its fine craftsmanship to their father by letting the sword move this way and that, guiding his hand.  
  
Finwë relaxed a little as he studied the artisan blade. "That is very good work," Finwë said. "Aulë has given you a great gift, son."  
  
"Thank you, Father," Fëanor said, but there was no warmth in his voice, and Fingolfin knew that their father giving Aulë credit for Fëanor's work was indeed a sore spot.  
  
"I will give Aulë extra wine tomorrow," Finwë said, "to give thanks."  
  
 _You can pour that wine up your ass,_ Fingolfin heard Fëanor's voice, but he didn't speak it, and Fingolfin realized he could hear Fëanor's thoughts, or at least that one. Fingolfin tried not to laugh, even as he felt the smallest pang of guilt for Fëanor's blasphemy.  
  
"It is good seeing my grandson," Finwë said. "You should come more than once every two years."  
  
Fëanor just gave a small nod, but Fingolfin could feel how much he'd hated this visit, even with seeing Finarfin, and getting to spend more time with Fingolfin. And Fingolfin hated seeing Fëanor like this, it _hurt_. It felt like the extra time had been wasted, like they'd been robbed, cheated, and that made Fingolfin angry. He had the sudden wild urge to take Fëanor, Maedhros, and Finarfin, and run away with the three of them, somewhere far, somewhere outside the reach of the Valar, even if it meant being outside the realm of their protection.  
  
 _Breathe._ Fingolfin looked at the sword again, the blue diamond. A thought came to him. "I should have a shield," Fingolfin said.  
  
"I can make one for you," Fëanor said, "but of course I would prefer you be present, as you were for the sword-making."  
  
Fingolfin nodded. "And I should have it before the wedding... so I can properly defend milady, if need be."  
  
"That's a good lad." Finwë nodded, and gave a small grunt.  
  
Fingolfin decided to test his luck. "May I go to Formenos for my fiftieth birthday? As you know, I will be an adult, and I can think of no better coming-of-age gift than a shield forged by my brother."  
  
Finwë narrowed his eyes, but Fingolfin knew Finwë could not exactly say no, and there was another small nod. "Yes. But remember that you have a wedding a month after your birthday, so you can't stay too long -"  
  
" _I know._ " Fingolfin felt irritated, not wanting to go through with the wedding at all, not even wanting to hear about it.  
  
Finwë opened his mouth, as if Fingolfin's sharp tone was going to elicit some sort of stern comeback, but then Finwë just turned on his heel and left.  
  
"I should go to my room now," Fingolfin said softly. As loath as he was to leave Fëanor alone - as much as he wanted to hold him close some more - he knew it would look very unseemly if he spent the night in here, even if they just held each other.  
  
"OK," Fëanor mumbled, nodding.  
  
The vulnerabilty tore at Fingolfin's heart and he gave his brother one last tight, fierce hug. "We will visit again soon. At Formenos, not here." Fingolfin smoothed Fëanor's hair. "The real birthday present isn't the shield... it's seeing you."  
  
Fëanor's eyes lit up, and before he could say anything, Fingolfin left the chamber, feeling like he'd said too much... but also not enough. But also, there were no words to properly express how he felt about his brother. It was beyond love, beyond sin.  
  
And that, more than it being sin itself, made it dangerous. Playing with a consuming fire.


End file.
